


Disillusionment

by TazzyJan



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Gen, Post-Episode: s01e04 The Good Soldier, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 05:10:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12162192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TazzyJan/pseuds/TazzyJan
Summary: This is another coda to The Good Soldier.  It is not a happy fic.  Unlike every other fic I have EVER written, it does not have a happy ending.  I feel the strong need to warn for this because I really don't like this kind of surprise in my fics.  So gentle reader consider yourself forewarned.There may or may not be a follow up to this story.  I've had this sitting around on my hard drive for some time and forgot about it and am posting it now.  I do hope you enjoy it.





	Disillusionment

Aramis wondered how it had all come to this. He had thought there could never exist a time in his life lower than Savoy, lower than watching the slaughter of his brothers in their beds, their death cries living far longer than the men themselves. He had thought nothing could ever be worse. Nothing could be worse than being forced to relive such horror, night after endless night, waking with his voice raw from his screams.

He had thought he was losing his mind. Or what little there remained of it. He had closed down then, turning inward, away from Athos and Porthos, the only two who bothered to try to approach him. They were so much better off without him anyway. He was nothing but a burden now, too broken to be of any use. Marsac should have left him there with the rest, left him to be butchered along with his brothers. At least then he would have known some measure of peace, even if it was in Hell.

But that was five years ago and with time and care and no small amount of faith on the part of his two friends, he had healed. He had thought that time behind him, even if he did grow nervous whenever they had cause to find themselves in a snowy forest overnight. His friends never made mention of it. Instead, they merely moved somewhat closer, kept a sharper watch than was the norm, and if they rose an hour or so earlier to be off, no one made any comment on it.

So when Marsac had popped up, like a ghost from a long-forgotten tomb, he had expected his friends… his brothers… to rally around him. He had been ready for Porthos’ hostility toward Marsac. He had not been ready to find it directed at himself, as well. He had certainly not been prepared for Athos’ disdain. It was not as if he was making baseless charges, that he was raving for all and sundry to hear. He had only asked that they listen, that they hear him out, that they give him a _chance_. 

They knew how much the events of Savoy plagued him… the senseless deaths… the unanswered questions. He only wanted justice for those who had lost their lives that fateful day. Yet Athos and Porthos had fought him at every turn, refusing to believe the evidence he presented, refusing to even look at it. They turned their backs on him when he needed them most.

Now, sitting alone at the table he had shared with these men for the last five years, he had to ask himself why. Why did they turn him away the one time he truly needed them? Had he done something to offend them? To make them think him unworthy? He cast his mind back furiously but nothing stood out to him. He recalled the incident with Bonnaire. He remembered how disconsolate Porthos had been at the thought of the man walking away unpunished. He had ached inside at the pain his brother had been in and would have done anything, treasonous or otherwise, to fix it. 

Perhaps that was the problem. While harboring Marsac, a known deserter, and questioning Treville were not necessarily treasonous acts they were both more than enough to see them drummed out of the Musketeers. Both Athos and Porthos placed a great deal of pride in their place within the regiment. Much more so than he, himself, did. Was that it? Had he asked too much when he asked them to jeopardize their standing as Musketeers?

Aramis shook his head at that. No, that could not be it. For if that were so they would never have agreed to Athos’ plan for Bonnaire. So if it wasn’t the idea of risking their standing then perhaps it was the idea of risking their standing for him. Aramis had to swallow against the sickening wave of bile that flooded his mouth at that thought. He loved his brothers dearly, more than life itself. It seemed, however, that his brothers did not return the sentiment. He thought they might have. Once. But, as with all of his relationships, once the blush was off the rose he found himself wanted less and less. 

He sat and simply breathed for a time, doing his best to quell the rising panic within him. Being a soldier was all he knew how to do any more. He supposed he would make a decent enough field medic but he wasn’t a doctor by anyone’s standard. He didn’t want to leave here, leave the Musketeers, leave Paris, yet how could he stay? It would be like a fresh dagger in his heart every time he saw them and knew his presence was no longer welcome. 

He was unhappily reminded of his father and the man’s parting words when he had left home all those years ago. He snorted derisively at the irony of them. His father had told him he would end up in the streets, dying or selling himself like his mother. He had always been proud to prove him wrong. He had to wonder now how much longer that would be the case. 

Shaking himself out of the morose turn his thoughts had taken, he began to plan. D’Artagnan would need to start working on his musket skills. The lad was good with a sword and that was where they had been concentrating. Athos was a decent enough shot. He should be able to teach the boy well enough. They would need him to have at least some semblance of accuracy or the three of them would be at a disadvantage. 

Looking around the deserted garrison, Aramis realized he had been sitting there most of the night. The sun would be up in a few hours. He needed to make a decision. Looking around at the place he had called home for nearly a decade, he felt his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. Rising from the table, he made his way up to the Captain’s office. He glanced about quickly to make sure no one was looking and slipped inside. He stood there for a moment, asking himself again if he was sure this was the right thing to do. He thought about his friends, recalling the anger in Athos’ eyes when he had questioned the Captain. He thought about the way Porthos had not so much as looked in his direction in over a day. He realized then that he had become an embarrassment to them. He was the millstone around their necks.

Decision made, he walked over to the Captain’s desk and removed his pauldron. He looked at it one last time and was tempted to take it with him as a reminder of the life he’d had for entirely too short a time but he didn’t. Instead, he lifted it to his face, inhaling the scent of the leather one final time before placing it in the center of the Captain’s desk. It was all the message he need leave. He would be packed and out of Paris before Treville even arrived at the garrison. By the time anyone knew, he would be little more than a memory. Not that he thought any of them would care, but honor was a funny thing. It could drive a man to do the very thing he wanted to least. Aramis would not see his friends keep him by their side for honor’s sake. It would be best for everyone if he was simply… gone.

It took a little over an hour. A little over an hour and Aramis’ entire life, what of it he chose to take with him, was strapped onto the back of his horse. With a nudge of his heels, he rode toward the back gate of the city, stopping just on the other side of it. He turned in the saddle then, wanting one last look at the city he had called home, the city he loved, the city he was now and forever leaving behind him. He sniffled and felt his eyes sting and it was enough to force him to turn back around in the saddle, enough to force him to nudge his horse into an easy lope once more. He couldn’t afford to walk. He needed to gain some distance, for his own sake if nothing else. 

He had made his decision. 

Now he just had to live with it.


End file.
